On Hipsterdom

This post is a long time coming. From porch-side conversations with my best friend to evening phone chats with my girlfriend, a certain label fails to elude me as I continue the trek through my late twenties as a rank-and-file member of the Millennial generation. Although this label overlaps, to an extent, with the generation before (X), I have warily accepted its use to describe certain tendencies that I embrace, no matter how much I feel it eviscerates any real depth to which I hold certain of my likes, dislikes, and convictions. I am talking about the divisive label Hipster, one that has been leveled against me by my students, by certain friends, and others. At first blush this title might conjure images of a thirtysomething, tattoo-wearing, mustache sprouting, oddly dressed entitled upper middle class white person, and though there are some excellent examples of how that came to be the case, it simply doesn't describe me at all. Upon deeper reflection, there are certain areas of hipster identity that can surely resonate with me. I'll reflect upon a few below. But, full disclosure, I write this article while sipping espresso in a local coffee shop listening to Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain by Pavement, a manifesto of alternative culture from the Nineties. Shouldn't surprise anybody.

1. Coffee and Tea

It's no secret that it takes a strong cup of coffee to get me going in the morning. What's more crucial, besides the quantity of beans ground into my first cup, is the type of roast. See, hipsters are known to swarm around coffee shops, carting their laptops to whatever locale might make for the best soy-or-almond-milk latte. There are a few roasteries whose beans prove to do it for me every time. Among them are Verve, from Santa Cruz, who ship all over California and can be found at my favorite places here in Fresno. Also Blue Bottle, from San Francisco, whose beans attract an original crowd of Bay Area hipster defined by their fixed-gear bicycles and white collar tech jobs. But the coffee is damn good. Also, they taught me how to make the perfect French Press brew. As for tea, I enjoy loose leaf green from my local tea shop, Teazers, a favorite in the Fresno Tower District. I learned not to let the hot green tea leaves steep for longer than 3 minutes, or else it turns bitter and acrid. But, with a little honey, the Monks Emperor Blend is fantastic. Such name-dropping of specific blends of teas from a localized tea shoppe should push me firmly into hipster territory, but if you visit the place yourself you'll see quite a normal Fresno crowd jammed in there to escape the heat. It's dubious evidence at best.

2. Fashion choices

The hipster is undeniably identifiable from his or her fashion choices. Everything about them screams "knockoff thrift shop," with Ross finds assembled alongside old team building shirts from ten years ago. I am not so thrifty as to bust out my remaining cash every time I enter a Goodwill or local place hawking used clothing. My collection of clothing consists mostly of "graphic tees," as my housemate insightfully points out, gifts and souvenirs from the various places that I've frequented in my travels. Sure, I have a Powell's shirt from the holy grail of independent bookstores in Portland, but I have never set foot in Oregon. The most hipster thing about my wardrobe might be my two Radiohead shirts and my thrift store smoking jacket with tobacco soot from my pipe caked onto the sleeves. It's a start, but it's still a stretch. Another category to consider might be tattoos. As I've explained to a few of my friends before, I would need a serious reason to apply permanent ink to my body as an expression of art. Art by definition conveys something that otherwise cannot be expressed. If I can find something about my character that I wish to convey through the medium of the visible image, then surely it deserves a shot. But, seeing as how words are an important part of my life, aren't they enough to satisfy the truly curious about my interests, convictions, and hopes? I do not wish to become the protagonist of Flannery O'Connor's short story "Parker's Back," with an ironic Byzantine Christ emblazoned on my back to atone for a life squandered running away from God. Nor do I wish to imitate those peers of mine who choose to emboss the biblical Greek onto their arms and legs to communicate some obscure religious idea. If I choose to ink it up, it will be magnificent, with the lines of the Puebloan Indians and Mexican colors bright on my arms. But we're not there yet. Perhaps my drawn out apologetic for my lack of tattoos is hipster enough.

3. Beer and Spirits

Because craft beer is so infused into the culture of older Millennials, this is again a category that continues to blur between hipster culture and that of the broader generation. On one hand, hipsters are known for a surprising love for older brands of American beer. Think Miller, Budweiser, and Pabst. On the other hand, they dive deep into the world of craft brewing, with favorite breweries in different regions. I can claim love for Pabst Blue Ribbon from a few years ago, when a five dollar six pack of PBR tall boys helped me unwind after the ridiculous hours spent on campus ministering to community college students. Seeing the six pack in my fridge, one student proceeded to compose a song that detailed her desire to share one in a quasi-creepy love song. Apparently it made an impression. But because Fresno is located in the middle of the state along a busy transportation corridor, we have access to some quality craft brews as well. Locally there is Tioga-Sequoia, whose beer garden proves that Downtown can still be an enjoyable place to hang out. But another new brewpub ensures access to lots of great craft brew, from San Diego's Modern Times to San Leandro's Drakes and Fort Bragg's North Coast Brewery. The West Coast IPA craze is still very much alive, and I've had to adjust my tastes to account for the many varieties of hops, from spicy to citrusy to floral, that have inundated these breweries. To think that six years ago, I, as a novice beer drinker, would only touch stouts and wheat beer is a sad thought. Yet I evolved, and now enjoy the fruits of good brewers. To contrast with the beer, my days in ministry have also left me with a love for more intense libations, particularly the whiskeys of Scotland and Kentucky. A good scotch or bourbon coupled with a bowl of fine tobacco smoked on a summer night is something sublime. I can think of nothing better than sharing company over good conversation, or diving into a good book to really appreciate that golden nectar. I don't exactly twirl my mustache as I do it, but I do often reflect on how there aren't a ton of other 27 year olds joining me in these types of pleasures. We nudge one step closer to the territory of hipsterdom. 

4. Art

If hipsters are known for anything, it's their exclusive tastes. Just as a Manhattan executive might know of the proper wine pairing for their $75 salmon dinner, a hipster is quick to consume the literature that keeps them in touch with the progressive end of pop culture. Thus hipsters won't be engaging in the current Taylor Swift-versus-Kanye and Kim debates. They'll be watching movies like The Lobster and Swiss Army Man and commenting on the director's choices of supporting leads, or cinematographers. Although I haven't seen either movie, I sympathize with this gestalt. My favorite filmmaker exists on the margins of the mainstream, although his movies always include Hollywood A-listers. Terrence Malick is most famous for the divisive The Tree of Life, but also put out the brilliant and achingly beautiful The New World as well as the WWII drama The Thin Red Line. These are films so stunningly beautiful that you'll forget that there is indeed a plot and characters that weaves together a story, although critics point out often that the story is secondary to the visuals. Does this make my taste superficial? Not if you take each shot of the film to be a sort of canvas, an audiovisual painting that communicates the director's vision. Someone told me they hated Tree of Life because "nothing really happens." But "happening" isn't really the point. It's in the spaces between the "action" and dialogue that the beauty is allowed to shine through, whether in the modest afternoon light of a suburban Texas street, or in the cosmic wonder of exploding stars and galactic nebulae spinning thousands of light years away. Malick expanded my vision for what a film could do to my sense of wonder, and in a way I was affected ever since. And yes, apart from Malick, I enjoy the work of his favorite cinematographer, Emmanuel Lubezki, responsible for the amazing work in several of his Mexican colleagues' works: Children of Men, Birdman, Gravity, and The Revenant. And, if you follow his Instagram, you will find some wonderful stuff there. So why go off on Malick? It's this type of particular opinion that hipsters love. The finer points of Lubezki's oeuvre? Absolutely game for a discussion in one of these coffee shops or pubs. Too bad I don't have anybody to join me now. 

5. Music, and, well, just music.

This is probably the category that did me in. Though I sport no other physical evidence towards my alliance with the hipster echelons (apart from the aforementioned Radiohead shirts), my pretension when it comes to music is, well, significant. Subscriptions to Pitchfork and Paste notwithstanding, I owe it to a legacy of music nerdiness inherited from my Dad and sustained by my UCLA-educated-turned-musician brother, who dives ever deeper into the world of Americana and bluegrass by way of traditional country music. Since we span diverse genres (I hold down the indie rock fort, while Dad takes over the realm of the 90s), I'm able to maintain my sense of independence when it comes to my taste. And my taste ranges from contemporary acclaimed hip hop (I'm talking about Kendrick Lamar and his genius past two releases) to Canadian indie rock and Tuareg blues. I would happily frequent the smaller stages of such festivals as Lollapalooza and Coachella if I ever had the guts to get out there to that festival, but would also find my home among the bigger, headlining acts. Pull up my Spotify playlists, and you'll find new luminaries like Chance the Rapper existing alongside relative unknowns like Stella Luna and Luray. There's new-gaze (DIIV), plaintive Americana (Jason Isbell), psychedelia (Son Lux), and art rock (Thao & the Get Down Stay Down). This isn't me flaunting my collection, begging for some recognition to sooth my narcissism as in "Oooh, look how eclectic my music taste is). I'm just aware that, like much of what I say, a lot of people would have no idea what I was talking about if I launch into a discussion of how the Canadian indie scene differs from New York's, or how Scottish post-rock leads the vanguard for cinematic soundtrack music. It doesn't bother me. And it shouldn't intimidate you, because the level of seriousness with which I take music is tempered by an equal desire to share this love and spread it wide. The amount of virtual ink that I spill to relate the musical world to my context is rightly great, and I'll gladly spend what little money I have nested here in the coffee shop nursing my pour over and harping happily about the latest releases that I find noteworthy. Sure, these musings will likely never find their way to a major publication, but I'd like to think that it's good for me to be in the discipline of sharing what I feel is good. I don't want to keep this stuff to myself. And thus my pretension is inclusive: it wants to draw others into this world of soundscapes new and exciting. If I am disparaged as a hipster along the way because of this, then so be it. You are welcome to peruse my playlists any time. I'll even create one for you if you desire; simply ask and it shall be so. Just don't ask me to comment with depth on the whole Taylor Swift and Kanye thing. If you've been paying attention to what I write on this blog you can probably guess who I'd side with anyways. 

Here's to PBR, Fedoras, Pipe tobacco, and Whiskey. Here's to vintage graphic tees and Chicago rappers. Here's to good taste, whatever you want to call it.